Britain ... - Blue-Lite

46 THE ENGLISH SLAVE. [Act III.
GONDABERT.
The same, the very same. She deals in spells,
And the forbidden arts of dark enchantment.
Her witchcraft blasts my brightest hopes of power,
And while she lives, my honour o'er the steep
Of foul disgrace clings to a reed, that bends
With every sigh she breathes ! I wish her dead.
RODERICK.
She dies, my lord. There need no further words.
GONDABERT.
I charge thee be not prodigal of time.
Take her off quickly, and thy great reward
Shall outgo all deservings.
RODERICK.
Fear me not.
The vesper-bell of yon monastic towers
Shall be her summons to another land. [Exit.
GONDABERT.
She is disposed of, and my worst fears with her.
Enter Evanda.
EVANDA.
No tidings yet, Rogvalla, of thy fleet !
On what far-distant seas have tempests driven
? Thy galley eagle-winged I come once more
Freedom to claim of thee, war-honoured Earl.
GONDABERT.
Freedom ? All-beauteous lady, there is none
Beyond these walls for thee. If thou depart
From the protection of these rampant towers,
Death will overtake thy steps.
EVANDA.
Death ? Better far
His cold embrace to meet, and lay me down